Seven Steps to Heaven
by Aydin's One
Summary: Postfic for Living Doll.  Tragic.


Author's Note: It's been over a year since I have written a fanfic. This has not been read by a beta. I will not be writing a sequel, and I am not returning to fanfic writing. This is a fluke.

Warning: This is not technically a character death BUT I would advise those who do not like character death to think twice before reading. You have been warned

* * *

In my pocket, I carry that handkerchief. Every day, I carry that off-white piece of fabric as a symbol of the day my life changed. It touched a red model sports car, and then it touched a rubber doll designed in her likeness.

It was the last day I saw her. And since that day, that handkerchief has stayed in my pocket.

For a while, I kept it together. Catherine thought I was handling the situation extremely well at first, given the fact that we were dealing with one of the most vicious and cunning serial killers in Las Vegas. Using the resources available to us, and our expertise, gave us a good chance at finding Sara _alive_ in the desert. I was on auto-pilot, and before we knew it, the reign of the serial killer had been brought to an end.

It took the abduction of the woman I love, but Natalie Davis was finally in custody.

Brass knew that I wasn't going to keep my temper for long, but he let me in the interrogation room anyway. He knew that no matter how hard I tried, how deep I had to go to get to Natalie's level, she wasn't going to tell me where Sara was. This girl broke down, mentally, right in front of me. I broke down emotionally.

I lifted myself up off the chair and walked out into the hall. Brass was waiting.

"I'll do what I can," he said. "I can't promise you anything. I'm sorry." I think I nodded, though the details are getting fuzzier over time. He took a uniformed officer and closed the interrogation door behind him. I stared ahead at a wooden bench, with my hands shoved in my pockets, and I felt the burning cloth of that handkerchief.

From that point on, I could no longer function as a CSI in the attempt to find Sara. I met up with search and rescue teams, walking through the hot Nevada desert in the dark and the sun. I begged and pleaded with helicopter teams, who took pity on me and allowed me to ride over the Vegas skyline. Those searches were fruitless.

Hours turned into days. Days fastened together in a treacherous cycle, and she'd been gone almost a week before I cried. Nick drove me home, against my will, but I no longer had the energy to fight him. I trudged up the steps and unlocked the door, only to be hit with the sweet smell of Sara. Her clothes, her shoes, her belongings. Her aura. Everything was her in this place, yet I fought back the hot tears. If I cried, she was gone, I told myself and collapsed onto the couch. Out of sheer habit, I reached for the remote and turned on the television.

"Las Vegas police have officially suspended the search for missing criminalist Sara Sidle, who disappeared six days ago in a bizarre abduction linked to a serial killer…" I shot up off the couch and stared at the screen. They flashed her photograph, like they had all week, and I knew it was pointless. A picture wasn't going to matter, I raged inside. It doesn't matter.

"She's under a car in the middle of the desert!" I screamed, and the remote flew out of my hand, coming to rest in pieces under the dining room table. "That goddamn picture isn't going to bring her back… just bring her back." My legs gave way, as my voice drained into a whispered plea, and I fell back onto the sofa. Six days without her.

I cried. Six days. Sara was dead.

Restless hours of sleep folded into day seven. The police department officially suspended the search. Hundreds of square miles had been searched by air, foot, and vehicle. The remainder of the team had questioned every tow company in the Las Vegas area, and when they were permitted, scoured every tow truck for evidence. They were out of leads, out of desert, and still Sara had not returned home.

Weeks became months, and I finally went back to work. I was surrounded by the egg shells people were walking on. No one but Catherine ever mentioned Sara. I know they were trying to keep me from breaking down, but she was still out there, somewhere, and they were forgetting about her.

I could never repay Catherine for all the mornings she stayed late, sitting in my office, talking about Sara. She told me about all the hints left behind that pointed to my relationship with Sara, the amusing secret romance that baffled the team. I opened up about the first date, moving in together, our dog, our fights, and the love that I never knew I could have. Every second I spent talking about Sara, her memory danced in my mind, and she was so beautiful and full of life.

"Hey, Catherine?" I asked one morning as she stood up to leave my office. "Thank you, for this. For keeping her alive." She smiled at me, and I could see tears in her eyes.

"You may not know this," she replied, "but after I leave here, I go home and have a glass of tea with my daughter. She talks about her father, and I talk about mine. That's how we deal with it." Catherine stepped through the doorway, and shut it gently behind her.

That's how we deal with it, I thought. I still didn't know what "it" was. Sara was missing, but for too long. How can you begin to grieve for a life not completely lost?

Two months, two weeks, and four days after Sara's abduction, Michael Dell was found dead in a bathtub in a Reno motel.

"How in the hell did we miss this guy?" Warrick cursed. The suicide note was laid out on the table in front of them. _I'm Sorry_. There were no other words written.

"What does he have to be sorry for?" I wondered aloud, as Nick walked in with a file folder.

"I can help you with that," he said, clearing his throat. "Michael Dell owns a tow truck company near Reno, under the name 'Michael Brothers, LLC'. His wife said three months ago, Michael received a call from a foster sister requesting help moving a vehicle for a photography project. He went down to Vegas for a couple days, and came back home, which was about a week before Sara's abduction. Apparently, since he had learned of Natalie's arrest, he had been acting strange, according to family. Went missing Saturday morning, and was found yesterday morning after police found his tow truck at the motel and busted down the door."

"How many more people have to die because of this girl?" Greg scoffed.

No one answered him.

The investigation continued into Michael Dell, and I had a hard time feeling sorry for the husband, father, and reserve police officer that had played a part in Sara's disappearance. I knew she was dead, but I still could not bring myself to call it a death investigation. Michael had moved the car, and his missing Taser was found among Natalie's possessions.

I went alone to the psychiatric facility, armed with a map and the photo of Michael Dell with the path of a .44 caliber bullet through his skull. They brought Natalie out in scrubs and handcuffs, and she was heavily medicated.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, where did you leave Sara?" I laid out the map of Nevada and the photograph of Michael. She studied both without flinching.

"I need a pen," she whispered, and I handed her a thin marker. She held the marker between her fingers on her bound hands and counted silently. Natalie's head tilted from side to side as she pondered the location. Finally, she dabbed a firm dot on the map.

"I put the car here. Sara is here." Natalie's voice was still haunted by her mental illness, but she couldn't refuse to cooperate. The medications all but took away her misguided genius, and only the shell of an already broken woman remained.

"Thank you, Natalie," I choked, and I pulled out my cell phone. I called Brass and gave him the location. The nurses wheeled her back to her confinement, and I flew out the door. It was all about to end.

"Gil, there's nothing here!" Brass yelled as I jumped out of the door of the car. "That bitch lied to us!" Sweat was pouring down his temples, and his temper was hot to match. But just as sure as there was no car, and no Sara, this was the right place.

"She was here," I sighed. The bushes were laid out exactly like the model, and the sand had been moved at some point to accommodate a large object. A black piece of plastic stuck out from beneath one of the bushes. A side mirror from a red Mustang.

The last lead ran cold. Michael Dell had moved Sara, and the car, before committing suicide. No witnesses had come forward, and there was no evidence of another co-conspirator. Sara had vanished.

In the seven months following, divers searched Lake Mead and every other large lake in the area, with no success. Junkyards were combed for pieces of the car, but nothing came up. We spent two or more shifts a day, seven days a week, frantically searching for the missing piece that would bring Sara home.

It was never found.

Thousands of working hours and a mild heart attack found me one year later, still without Sara. That day, the case was officially labeled "cold". The evidence was boxed and stored, and there were no more detectives dedicated to finding her. Except Brass, who spent the last eight hours of his last shift before retirement standing in the blazing Nevada desert staring at the sand.

I stepped down from my supervisory position, and allowed Catherine to take the reigns over the night shift. My own retirement soon followed. Crime continued in Las Vegas, and the team continued to solve cases without me.

Without Sara.

Everywhere I went, I would see a woman who resembled her. I'd call out her name, and get no response. My phone would ring, and my heart would skip a beat.

Years later, a knock on the door stirred me from sleep.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" Catherine asked, and she stepped through the doorway. "I'm off tonight and I couldn't sleep and I couldn't quit thinking about…" She stopped and set her purse down on the couch. I set a beer in front of her and took the chair.

"About Sam?" I asked. She shook her head.

"About Sara. How do you go on not knowing?"

"I don't know." I answered, honestly. "I don't know." And seven years later, I still don't know. The more time passes, the less likely it seems that there will be any closure from this. I have ideas on where she is, or was, but that's all they are. I hope that when I pass from this world, Sara is waiting on me. If not, I'll still be waiting for her.

Other than a white handkerchief in my pocket, that is all that I can be sure of.


End file.
